


The Currency of Seasons

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Traders (TV 1995)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-20
Updated: 2006-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-25 06:10:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1635716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five holidays Chris Todson never had.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Currency of Seasons

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Irmelin

 

 

**I. Christmas Eve**

His feet swung back and forth, making soft scraping sounds on the hardwood floor that were drowned out by the Reverend's rumbling speech. It reverberated from the pulpit, like angels from Heaven telling the Good News to the shepherds in the field and Christopher, not yet six years old, believed in the baby Jesus, wrapped in swaddling clothes and laying in a manger.

"And, lo, the people who dwelt in darkness have seen a great light," the Reverend proclaimed. Christopher tilted his head up and gazed at the candles on the alter, burning bright and casting shadows all around them. When the service was over, he held his mother's hand as they emerged from the church. There was snow on the ground, but none was falling now. The stars were high and clear in the sky, and he felt cold and clean.

**II. Epiphany**

Chris spent his first year in Toronto working retail and reading the financial pages of all the major papers obsessively. He treated December 25th like any other day off and slept in. When he returned to work the next day, he only felt a sense of gratitude that the incessant carol music had stopped.

But on the night of January 6th, Chris rode the subway downtown and walked into a district that his father would surely call demonic. All flashing lights and promises of debauchery, enticing people with money to spend and time to waste. His heart beat faster as he stopped in front of one of the more specialized clubs. Chris took a deep breath and stepped towards the entrance. He would celebrate on his own this year and fuck his father and fuck his former hometown and fuck shunning and fuck everything.

They took his clothes - and his money - at the door. The woman was petite, dark, and deliberately mysterious, clad in black leather and bare skin. Her tiny fingers were deft, and she tied him up with red ribbons and coarse rope. Her commands were softly spoken as she trailed her hands down his body. He shuddered from the shame and the sensuality of it. And when he came, it was with an intensity that felt almost religious.

**III. Canada Day**

The nights of backbreaking research and days of schmoozing had finally paid off. Chris had closed the Glico deal and earned quite of bit of cash for the firm, and more importantly, for himself. He took the client out for drinks to celebrate and they toasted each other for hours.

Later, he walked along the waterfront, half-drunk on wine and dizzy with success. The fireworks bloomed like alien wildflowers above him, red and green and blue and white. They sounded like cannons booming on a field. Chris grinned, using his fingers to tap out a military march on his leg. This time last year he had been frantically tracking the falling Canadian dollar as his coworkers mocked him and Marty yelled. Now he found himself humming "O Canada" under his breath and laughed with surprise at himself and the world.

The next day, hungover but still ebullient, he looked smugly down on the trading floor as he made his way into the boardroom for the morning meeting. But Deeds had just closed a deal yesterday as well and _his_ involved the signing of a multimillion dollar contract, dwarfing the Glico deal by an order of ten-to-one. Chris took his few paltry words of congratulation and seethed in his seat, all his happiness of the day before made tainted and meaningless.

**IV. Easter**

She bought her own drink this time. Rachel Lindsey looked at him with clear, determined eyes and sipped her Scotch like she had been born to it. "I wanted to thank you again," she said, "and I wanted to let you know that I'm not going back."

"You'll probably regret it," he warned her again, unable to summon up his sarcasm. Unable to be anything but sincere with her. "You'll miss it everyday."

Rachel shook her head. "I probably will. But I'm learning how to teach children, and I'm learning _what_ to teach them. I already knew one thing before I came here, though, and it was that all children must grow up."

Chris shrugged and said nothing.

Rachel put her drink down on the table, and covered Chris's hand with her own. "I want to grow up in another way," she said. "If you would...help me?" And there at last was the hesitancy, trembling in her voice.

Because of it, he didn't argue, though he wanted to. Instead, he took her to his condo with his widescreen TV and his fancy microwave and undressed her carefully. It was sweet and fumbling, the way it had never been, not even with Mrs. Tanner.

When he woke up with Rachel still sleeping beside him, Chris stared up at the ceiling and wondered if this counted as a victory or a defeat.

**V. Birthday**

Chris drove out of town for his birthday that year. Only wanting to get out of Toronto, he hadn't thought about choosing a direction. By the time that occurred to him, he was already twenty miles away. He considered going out to see his land, to imagine it developed and despoiled, like earth salted and burned. But he could do that any weekend. In the end, he followed the traffic down the highway and round up in Niagara Falls.

The tourists chattered like a pack of noisy sparrows and Chris was tempted to get back in his car and drive down into the States. Go to New York City, maybe. Chris felt restless and uneasy, which made his habitual bad mood worse.

But he stayed where he was, and looked down at the millions of galleons of water that poured down beneath him. Chris thought about the people who went over the Falls in barrels. Two outcomes: improbable survival or painful death. He wouldn't have done it himself, but Chris had survived worse. The pounding of the Falls drowned out the tourists, and after a while, he felt small and insignificant and peaceful.

 


End file.
